


The Alchemy of Sea Glass

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent post S3, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: Salt and air and sand surrounded their little party of three. Crashing waves, gull cries, and the exhilarated exclamations of an excited three-year-old served as the soundtrack to a day filled with blue skies and bright sunshine.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 102
Kudos: 323





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to MysteryCat and hpswl-cumbercookie on their beta skills! 
> 
> Any and all mistakes are my own.

When Mary took off with the AGRA flash drive, leaving John with an infant and a letter, he knew she would not be coming back. She never did. He knew Sherlock had Mycroft look into her whereabouts or any sign of what might have happened to her. 

One day, Sherlock came to the house he had shared with Mary, and John could see that he knew something about her. Where she was or what might have happened to her. He had held Rosie in his arms, bottle in her greedily suckling mouth, and shook his head firmly at his friend. “I don’t want to know,” he had said. Sherlock had opened his mouth and John spoke over him. “I don’t want to know. She left. I don’t want to know, Sherlock,” and Sherlock had closed his mouth and came inside the house. He had made tea for them, and John had finished feeding Rosie. She had been fussy and refused to be put down. When he eventually gave up trying to lay her in her cot for a nap, he had come back down and Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table. “Come back to Baker Street. You and Rosie,” he said and John hesitated. He had stared down at his sleeping daughter in his arms, salty tear tracks crusted on her cheeks. Sherlock couldn’t want this. He hadn’t signed up for babies and dirty nappies and midnight feedings. But Sherlock looked at Rosie, then met his eyes and said “I want you both there,” and John said “Okay”, because he was a selfish man and he couldn’t imagine raising a baby on his own, not when he could have Sherlock in his life, as well. He and Rosie were moved in two weeks later and the house sold a month after that. 

That was three years ago. There had been some adjustments to the flat with the addition of a baby, then a toddler, but Sherlock took it all in stride and never seemed to regret his decision to have them move in. He played his violin at reasonable hours and often to help Rosie calm when she was crying or sleepy, didn’t shoot the walls, kept body parts in a small fridge in his bedroom, kept his experiments in places a small toddler couldn’t reach when it became necessary, and often watched Rosie on his own when John had shifts at the clinic because Sherlock hated the idea of Rosie in daycare. 

Sherlock had even been the one to interview nannies and find one who could meet their sporadic needs so John could continue to join him in the Work. 

And he loved Rosie as much as John did. It was so obvious. The way he held her small body and fed her her bottle, the way he held her hand when she first started to walk, the way he would throw her in the air and catch her as she giggled madly in the park, the way he would sit down with her and encourage her curiosity in his experiments. 

It was perfect. He had everything he wanted. 

Or almost, at least. 

It was enough. It had been enough and it would keep being enough.


	2. Chapter 1

Apparently it was too hot in London for the criminal classes to bother committing crimes. John had spent the last week watching Sherlock dance between pacing the rug in front of the empty fireplace, flop on the floor while Rosie built LEGO towers around his head, start three new mould experiments (in an upper cupboard where Rosie couldn’t reach), and after the sixth day of his complaints regarding the lack of cases and the abundance of heat, he had sent the man out of the flat and to the morgue to bother Molly. It was someone else’s turn for a bit.

When he returned less than two hours later, just as John was ordering a pizza for their dinner because there was no way he wanted to cook in this heat, he briefly wondered what on earth he had done in his life that justified Sherlock as punishment. 

Not that he really felt that way, of course. There was absolutely nowhere else he would rather be. As he watched Sherlock scoop Rosie up into his arms, dancing her around the living room between the chairs and tables as he whispered something in her ear, he also knew there was no one else he wanted to spend his life with. He ended his call and put his mobile on the kitchen counter before he walked into the living room where his friend and daughter danced.

“You seem to be in a better mood,” John said with a smile.

“Oh yes, that’s because we’re going away for the weekend.”

“We are?”

“Indeed. Tell your father where we’re going, Watson.”

“We’re going to the beach!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“And when is this supposed to be happening?”

“We leave Friday.”

“Sherlock, you could have asked first.”

“What for? You don’t have work on Friday because it’s a bank holiday and you don’t have hours on Monday. Plenty of time for a short holiday.”

“Sherlock…,” John started, but Sherlock stopped his dancing with Rosie to turn to him.

“John. It’s perfect. We can drive down Friday morning, spend the weekend there, and drive back on Monday. If it’s going to be this hot we might as well enjoy it properly. Besides, look at how excited Rosie is,” Sherlock drawled with a hint of a smirk on his lips as Rosie turned to look at him as well. Sherlock whispered in her ear again and she nodded enthusiastically before he placed her down and she ran up to him.

“Daddy, please please please! I want to see the water!”

John looked down at his daughter’s bright and pleading eyes, then glanced at Sherlock with his completely see-through innocent expression, and sighed. 

Well, there was no way he was going to win that battle. 

“Fine, fine. I guess we’re going to the beach,” John relented and Rosie jumped up and down in excitement. 

“Wonderful. I have it all planned out,” Sherlock declared as Rosie ran to the sofa and continued her jumping on the cushions.

“You do?” John asked in surprise.

“Yes, it’s all taken care of. A car, a place to stay, everything.”

John blinked in reply. He usually did the planning for these kinds of things, and for Sherlock to have not only planned, but have put all those plans in motion, was a bit of a shock. 

“When did you plan all of this?”

“About 20 minutes after I walked into Barts and Molly yelled at me to put down the scalpel. Figured I should do something with my time before I came back here.”

“Huh. Okay then. So...I guess I just need to pack a bag for me and Rosie, then.”

“That’s all,” Sherlock agreed. 

So, John packed himself and Rosie a bag, and two days later they had pulled up to a small cottage on the coast.

The cottage was postcard-perfect in that quaint quintessentially English countryside way. There was a garden bursting with life and color that surrounded the entirety of the whitewashed walls. Wisteria trees, lavender, and other flowers John couldn't identify were home to a variety of butterflies, songbirds, and bees. They all blended together with the scent of the sea that he couldn’t see, but knew was there. John breathed in deeply as muscles he hadn’t realized were tense began to relax. 

Sherlock rounded the car to the boot and pulled out their bags as John opened the back door to let Rosie out. She had fallen asleep on the drive up but had woken up when they had turned onto the road that led to the cottage. Rosie hadn’t stopped talking since the moment her eyes had opened and she realized they were almost to their destination, and she was still going as John unbuckled her from her seat. 

She was completely enamored with the house and garden. The moment her feet touched the ground she took off for the trees that stood in the back of the property without a care in the world. He watched her for a moment, unable to keep the smile from his face as she capered about. When he turned to help with the bags, he found Sherlock staring at him, but he quickly looked away when he caught John’s eye. 

“She’ll be safe to explore. There’s nothing dangerous she can get into besides maybe upsetting a bee,” Sherlock said as his gaze shifted to watch Rosie as she ran up to a tree and pulled on a low lying limb to smell the flowers there.

“I wasn’t worried,” John said. He went over to meet Sherlock at the back of the car and picked up his bag, then closed the boot. When he reached for Rosie’s bag, Sherlock quickly bent and picked it up instead. 

“The door should be unlocked. Mummy had the kitchen stocked this morning,” Sherlock told him as they turned to walk up the path.

John paused, his brain taking a moment to process Sherlock’s words before he started after him again.

“Wait. Is this your parent’s home?” John asked.

“Yes. Well, one of their homes,” Sherlock informed him casually and John just shook his head. 

“That would explain how you planned everything so quickly,” John said and Sherlock glanced at him. “How long have they had this one?”

“Since I was young,” Sherlock answered him and opened the door, which was indeed unlocked, and ushered John inside. 

All of the windows were open to let in the breeze. The house smelled of the garden and the sea. Golden light shone through the glass and white linen curtains and cast the rooms in the soft glow of the warm afternoon. Rosie’s song as she sang to herself among the trees filtered through the open window and John was fairly sure he never wanted to leave.

“The rooms are up the stairs,” Sherlock said as he led him up the staircase set just off center of the front door. 

He stopped at the first door on the right and opened it up to reveal a sunny room painted a soft blue color. There were paintings of hot air balloons with different animals and the single bed was decorated in shades of pink and grey. Atop the duvet laid a stuffed rabbit with a purple bow tied around its neck and John glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock’s cheeks had tinted a lovely pink at the appearance of the room and his eyes shifted at John for a moment before he entered and put down Rosie’s bag.

“It would appear Mummy made some changes to the rooms,” he said and John couldn’t hold back his laugh. 

“She went through a lot of trouble for just a weekend,” he chuckled and Sherlock smiled at him for a moment before he walked back out of the room and towards the end of the hallway.

“Well, she does love to dote on her. I hardly think she considered it any trouble at all. She’s not likely to have any other grandchildren to…” he started, then coughed and shook his head. “Not that Rosie is her grandchild, of course, she doesn’t see her that way,” he tried to backtrack, clearly flustered, and John reached out a hand to place it on his friend’s shoulder.

“It’s fine, I know what you meant,” he said with a gentle squeeze and a smile. “I don’t mind.” He didn’t mind the doting, or that she cared, or that she considered Rosie a grandchild. He would surround Rosie with as many people as he could that would love her the way she deserved to be loved.

Sherlock gave a quick nod in response, then opened the door on the right at the end of the hallway. “This room is for you.”

Another sunny room, though this one had a double bed that was done in soft blues and yellows. It rather reminded John of the garden below and he walked in and dropped his bag at the foot of the bed. He could hear Rosie playing outside the open window here, as well. 

“That you across the way, then?” John asked with a nod of his head toward the door across the hallway. 

“Yes,” he replied, the _obviously_ left unsaid, and John couldn’t help the grin that came to his face. 

He watched as Sherlock’s eyes roved quickly over the room.

“This was your room?” John asked and Sherlock looked at him with a hint of surprise on his features.

“Once upon a time. How could you tell?”

John shrugged. “Don’t know. Just the way you were looking around, I guess.”

Sherlock arched a brow at that. John shrugged again.

“Daddy! Sherlock! Where are you?” came Rosie’s voice through the open window and both men turned towards the sound. 

John crossed quickly to the window and peered out, quickly finding the top of Rosie’s curly blonde head as she poked about the garden flowers.

“Just up here, darling,” he called and she looked up at the sound of his voice. 

She found him after a few moments of looking at the different windows. “I’m hungry!”

He smiled. “Yes, alright. I’ll get you some lunch, then.”

“Ice cream!” she called out.

“Maybe later,” he said with a laugh, then turned back into the room. Sherlock had left at some point while he spoke to Rosie, presumably to go drop off his own bag, judging by the open door of the bedroom across the way. 

He crossed the hallway and stuck his head through the open door after a perfunctory knock on the wooden frame. Sherlock was unpacking his suitcase and looked up at the knock.

“Rosie’s hungry so I’m going to make us a quick lunch. Thought we might head down to the beach after if you like.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Sherlock agreed with a nod. “There’s ice cream in the freezer,” Sherlock smirked up at him.

John shook his head at his friend. “Fine, we can have ice cream and lunch, then go down to the beach,” he said with a smile.

“There should be plenty to choose from in the kitchen. I’ll be down in a moment.”

John nodded, then turned and made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen set at the back of the house. The kitchen was light and airy with clean white cabinets and buttery yellow walls. More windows here let in the light and there was a door set into the back wall. John opened it and found himself in another section of the garden. This one was clearly meant for kitchen use judging by the different herbs he could identify throughout. Rosemary, parsley, sage, thyme, basil. Others, too, and the smell was lovely and earthy and John simply breathed for a moment. They had needed this. A chance to get out of the city for a bit, with its exhaust and claustrophobia and the cloying scent of the Thames. 

He loved London with his whole heart. He did. But this, this, was lovely. Clean air and clean scents. He gave his head a shake. 

“Rosie! Come in for lunch!” he called. 

“Coming, Daddy!” came the reply a moment later from around a corner. She caught sight of him and started to make her way through the flowers without bothering with finding the stone path that wound throughout the garden. 

“Watch your feet, Rosie,” he reminded her.

“Whoops,” she said without stopping and somehow managed to keep from stepping on anything without even paying attention. “Look, look!” 

He watched as she made her way through the door, one little fist held high, and a triumphant smile on her face. “Look what I found, Daddy!”

“What is it, love?”

She carefully opened her hand and revealed a small snail clutched carefully in her hand. The shell was banded white and brown and the snail itself was currently nowhere to be seen, apparently having retreated into the shell during its rather abrupt transport to the kitchen by a three-year-old.

“That’s a neat snail you found. I like the colors on its shell,” he told her and her smile grew.

“I found it in the purple flowers. Can I keep it?” 

“White Lipped snail,” Sherlock’s voice came from the doorway behind them and Rosie squealed and ran up to him, proudly displaying her find. Sherlock examined it with all the intensity that he examined most things. “Well done, Watson.”

“Can I keep it?” Rosie asked again.

“I’m sure we could find something to keep it in while we’re here. We’ll need to return it before our return home, though,” Sherlock said and Rosie nodded her enthusiastic agreement to this plan.

“I’m going to name him Ice Cream because he looks like ice cream,” she declared.

“Why don’t you and Sherlock go find somewhere for Ice Cream the Snail to live for a couple of days, then? Maybe grab some leaves and such from the garden to make it nice and homey for him. I’ll get us lunch together,” John said with a glance up at Sherlock. 

“Excellent plan, John. Come along, Watson. Let’s see what we can find,” Sherlock agreed before turning to leave with a smile and wink dropped over his shoulder, and Rosie trailing behind with Ice Cream snug in her little fist.

John watched them head into the main part of the house before he turned to the refrigerator and pulled the door open, letting out a soft whistle when he did. Inside were several meals that looked ready to eat. A glance at the counter beside the fridge revealed a piece of paper that had a list of the meals and instructions on how to prepare them. Well. Sherlock’s mother seemed to think they would be staying for two weeks judging by the meals in here rather than 3 days. He shook his head with a chuckle, then pulled out what he thought were the chicken and vegetable wraps listed on the paper. 

He found the plates after opening several of the wrong cupboards, then set about portioning the food. Cut up vegetables soon joined the wraps, and then he found a knife and sliced an apple up for Rosie. He had just taken a bite of one of the slices, the juice bright and sweet on his tongue, when Sherlock and Rosie rounded back into the kitchen. Rosie was propped up on Sherlock’s hip, his arms comfortable and confident around her small body, and John felt his heart squeeze in a completely familiar fashion after all these years. Familiar and yet still terrifying. 

It had evolved from those early days, where the sight of Sherlock running after a suspect or deducing a crime scene sent a thrill through him that he convinced himself was just excitement from having something better to do than sit in an abysmal bedsit on the outskirts of London. That the man himself had little to do with it, it was just the environment that he led him to. It helped that Sherlock had stated in no uncertain terms that relationships were not his area, that he was married to his work, and John was able to nod and say ‘It’s all fine’ and mean it.

It was when the jealousy started that ‘It’s all fine’ became harder to maintain. Just small flashes of it at first. A twinge of possessiveness when someone stood too close or held Sherlock’s attention for longer than five minutes. Moriarty had held his attention and there had been an almost obsessiveness about it that rubbed John wrong in many ways. Then The Woman happened and John felt moments of panic and jealousy through that entire interaction. And she had seen it, which scared him most of all. She had looked at him and knew John’s heart the way that Sherlock looked at him and knew his life. 

Then Sherlock fell and the lie shattered as easily as a skull fractures after dropping four stories to the pavement. His heart was broken. No pretty metaphors to paint a pretty picture needed. His best friend, the man he had fallen in love with, was dead. He questioned himself every day for the two and a half years that Sherlock was gone if maybe he wouldn’t have fallen if he had told him the truth. If he had taken that chance.

When he met Mary, he thought maybe he could turn his miserable existence around again. It wasn’t perfect, but she seemed to accept his flaws and they made it work. He told himself he was in love with her. Just another little lie he told himself. He should have realized earlier how bad he was at lying. He never should have married her. But he wouldn’t give up Rosie for the world, so it didn’t matter anyway. 

He gave himself a small shake and forced himself back to the present. He nodded his chin towards the table. “Lunch is ready,” he said, stating the obvious, but he was too pleased with how steady his voice came out to care.

Rosie ran up to the table and climbed atop a chair in front of one of the plates and stuffed a whole slice of apple in her mouth. 

“Bites, Watson, if you please,” Sherlock said as he rounded the table across from her and she nodded. 

“Sorry,” she said around her food and Sherlock shook his head before he glanced at John, who was placing cups of water down in front of their plates.

“Find a home for Ice Cream?” John asked as he settled into an empty chair across from Sherlock. 

“Indeed we did. He’s up in Rosie’s room as we speak,” Sherlock said with a smile towards Rosie, who nodded vigorously as she grabbed a carrot stick.

“Sherlock helped me find a pretty flower for him!” she added. “A lily.”

“You’ll have to show me later. I was thinking we could go to the beach after lunch,” he said and Rosie squealed in delight.

“Can we go now?!”

“After lunch,” John laughed.

He watched as Rosie took a tiny bite of her wrap, then put it down and shouted: “All done!”

“No, I don’t think so, miss. You’ll eat your lunch, and Sherlock and Daddy will eat their lunch, and then we’ll go,” he said, and she rolled her eyes before she took another bite of her lunch and turned towards the open door to look out at the garden. 

John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock who was biting down on his lips to hold back the smile that he could clearly see in his eyes. 

“You know you’re the reason she thinks eating is optional,” he teased and Sherlock’s lips quirked up in a half-smile in acknowledgment.

“It’s one of the least offensive traits she could pick up from me,” he replied and John barked out a laugh. 

“Yes, I’m sure you noticed the eye roll.”

A shrug. And a grin before Sherlock bit into his wrap. John watched him for a moment before turning to his own lunch. 

*

Salt and air and sand surrounded their little party of three. Crashing waves, gull cries, and the exhilarated exclamations of an excited three-year-old served as the soundtrack to a day filled with blue skies and bright sunshine. 

John was stretched out on a blanket, a paperback abandoned in his lap, as he watched his best friend and daughter as they played in the surf and small tide pool that had formed as the tide shifted. Rosie’s high pitched laughter carried on the wind back to him as she ran and threw herself into the waves while Sherlock kept a steady eye on her should she need his rescue. 

In the knowledge that she was well looked after, he let himself watch his friend instead. 

Sherlock stood at the point where the tide receded, the sand shifting and pulling away from his bare feet while he watched Rosie. Soft linen trousers were folded up in an attempt to keep them dry, but John could see where the material had darkened after getting wet from a misjudged step or wave. The sleeves of his white button-down were rolled up to his elbows and his dark curls were in complete disarray as the wind whipped through them. His back was towards him at the moment, and John allowed his gaze to drift over his long, lean lines in silent appreciation for the beauty before him. 

Sherlock must have felt his gaze. He shifted slightly, turning his head to look over his shoulder at John, a small smile tugging at his lips, and John didn’t bother hiding his own smile in return. Sherlock ducked his head, almost shyly, before he turned his attention back to Rosie who was now searching through the sand for seashells. 

John’s heart ached in the best of ways as he watched the two people he loved most in all the world. A love that was spoken aloud endlessly for one and unspoken for the other. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had told Sherlock he loved him, years ago. He had told him when he asked him to be his best man at his wedding to Mary. “The two people I love most in the world,” he had said in the kitchen of 221B. He had lied to himself for so long at that point that he actually had believed that. That he loved them both equally and that he could have them both. 

At his wedding, Sherlock said he loved him. In front of a room full of people and his brand new wife, and John had cried. The tears hadn’t left his eyes, but they were there, burning behind his eyelids and he had stood and pulled Sherlock into a hug because what else could he do? He was married. 

When Mary and he danced while Sherlock played the song he had composed specifically for them, John couldn’t help the thought that maybe, just maybe, he should end the whole thing now. Have the marriage annulled. He felt guilty for those thoughts, but they were circling his head as he and Mary circled the dance floor. Then Sherlock deduced one more thing than he meant to, and it changed everything. 

Pregnant. Mary was pregnant.

He was shocked. They had been careful. John had always thought he wanted children, but the older he had gotten, he had accepted that it likely wasn’t going to happen for him. Figured it was probably for the best, actually. He wasn’t exactly the ideal candidate for fatherhood. And now it had and he was more conflicted than he had ever been in his life. Moments ago he had seriously considered annulment on the sliver of a chance that when Sherlock had said: “the two people who love you most in all this world” he meant that he loved John, truly loved him, and maybe Sherlock really could be his. Except he was going to be a father and he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. His heart was breaking at the same time that it tried to soar. 

When Mary’s past came creeping up on them and she killed Sherlock, no matter how briefly, John became numb. The woman he had told himself he loved, who was pregnant with their child, had shot his best friend. He had almost lost Sherlock again. And Sherlock kept trying to defend her, which John never could understand. He went back to her because Sherlock insisted that he needed to be there for Mary and the baby. But he went back mostly because a large part of him was terrified that Mary would kill Sherlock if he did not return to her. She was dangerous and he couldn’t chance her taking off with their child or finishing off Sherlock. He went back to his lying, murderous wife for Sherlock, and didn’t that just speak volumes? 

Then the nightmare with Magnussen happened and he almost lost Sherlock again. Again and again. Sherlock in his life, giving him life, then taken out of it again and John was left struggling to keep his head above the water. 

“Daddy! Look, look!” Rosie’s voice cut through his memories and he looked up as his daughter came running up to him, Sherlock trailing a few meters behind. 

“Did you make another discovery, darling?” he asked as she came to a stop in front of him, small fist brandishing her newest treasure.

“It’s blue!” she exclaimed, her hand moving too fast for John’s eyes to actually see what she held. 

“Well I’d love to see it when you calm down a bit,” John chuckled and she stilled long enough for him to see a flash of cloudy blue before she turned and ran towards Sherlock, jumping in his arms without hesitation, who deftly caught her and swung her up on his hip as he continued walking towards John.

“Sea glass,” Sherlock explained as soon as he was close enough to speak without raising his voice. “Miss Rosie found a rather lovely piece,” he said, his attention turned to the girl in his arms, who beamed with pride at the announcement.

“I found it all by myself!” she declared, squirming madly until Sherlock put her down again and she rushed to John’s side again, this time holding her hand open so John could actually see the irregularly shaped piece of obscured blue glass. 

“May I?” he asked and when she nodded he plucked the piece from her small palm and ran his thumb over the smoothed edges. “Beautiful, Rose. You’ll have to start a collection,” he told her with a smile before handing it back to her.

Her mouth opened in an excited “o” at the idea of starting a new collection and she nearly vibrated in her skin at the prospect. She turned around in a circle, looking for something. “Where’s my pail?” 

He pointed to the red plastic beach pail that she was nearly standing on top of and when she spotted it she giggled.

“Oh, I didn’t see that. I’m going to look for more!” she proclaimed before she grabbed the bucket and ran back off to the waterline.

“Stay on the sand, Rose!” he called after her, then turned his attention to Sherlock who was turning to go back after her again. “We can watch her from here. Come sit down.”

Sherlock turned back towards him, a slightly skeptical expression on his face, and John arched his brows. “What?”

“She was expressing a desire to become a mermaid before she found the sea glass. I’m not entirely certain she won’t hurl herself into the waves thinking that she is one.”

“She’ll be fine. We’re watching her and the tide is pretty calm,” he nodded his chin towards his daughter where she stood meters away from the surf to hunt for her new treasures. 

Sherlock glanced at her, then nodded and made himself comfortable on the other side of the beach blanket from John. Long legs stretched out in front of him and he leaned back on his palms as he kept his eyes on his goddaughter. 

They sat beside each other quietly for several minutes, just enjoying the simplicity of blue skies, sunshine glittering off the sea, the gentle breeze, and Rosie’s determined hunt for more sea glass and shells. John breathed in deeply and let out a happy sigh.

“I love the smell of the ocean.”

“Ah, yes, the smell of decaying fish.”

John cut his eyes at Sherlock and grinned. “Charming.”

“Well, not just fish. Decaying seaweed and other marine plants. The bacteria that gather there and consume those products produce a gas called dimethyl sulfide and that’s what you’re smelling.”

“You’re such a romantic, Sherlock.”

“Science, John.”

“Well, decaying fish or bacteria produced gases, I still love the smell.’

“You would.”

John grinned and they fell back into a comfortable silence. 

“I used to hunt for sea glass as a boy,” Sherlock’s deep voice suddenly disclosed and John turned to look at him.

“I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up. I didn’t have any gold, but I knew all pirates needed treasure, and I thought sea glass would be as good a treasure as anything else. A shard of glass that had changed its appearance through its time in the ocean. Became something special despite starting off as something no one wanted,” Sherlock said and there was a touch of sadness in the way he explained it that broke something in John’s heart. Sherlock cleared his throat. “So I would come down every day and look for pieces. I collected several hundred over the years. They should be in the house somewhere unless Mummy did something with them.”

John could easily see it. A young Sherlock with dark wild curls, running about the beach, brandishing a wooden cutlass while hunting for his treasures. It was a charming image and he appreciated that Sherlock felt comfortable enough to share that glimpse into his past. Sherlock rarely spoke of any of the time before John entered into his life. His childhood and time as a young adult were as much of a mystery as the man had been when they first met. He’d learned to read Sherlock over the years, at least a bit. Or so he liked to think. But in truth, he was still an enigma that John couldn’t completely understand. 

When it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t going to add any more to his story, John glanced at him. “Well, I’d love to see it if you find it.”

Sherlock nodded but said nothing. John noticed the edge of his lips tilted up in the barest suggestion of a smile. He smiled and turned his attention back to the sea and Rosie. 

“Thank you for coming here with me,” Sherlock suddenly said, his voice quiet, and for a moment John wasn’t sure he actually heard anything until he continued. “You and Rosie being here is...good.”

“Thanks for inviting us. I think we needed a break from the city. Some fresh air.”

“Indeed.”

“Even if it is just decaying fish,” John said with a grin and Sherlock laughed. 

“Quite so.”

They both leaned back, palms braced on the blanket beneath them and watched as Rosie shouted in triumph at another discovery, her high voice delighted as she turned to run back to show them.


	3. Chapter 2

Rosie woke early the next day, nearly vibrating in her excitement, and instead of tempting her back to sleep, John simply got her and himself dressed. Sherlock was still sleeping, so he told Rosie to be extra quiet, and they left the house and went down to the beach before the sun had even begun to rise. Rosie ran through the sand in the predawn light, hunting for more treasures and making sandcastles with the toys John had somehow remembered to grab on their way down.

The tide was high when they arrived. The crashing surf stretched lazily up the sand, darkening the previously wet sand before pulling it back out to sea again. John stood at that point where the waves beat the shore, curling his toes as the water rushed back out over his ankles and his feet sank into the wet sand. It was a strange feeling, of standing still yet moving, and there was something so familiar about that sensation that he couldn’t bear to step away. 

He felt like he had stood at the water’s edge all of his life; always standing at that brink of constantly shifting footing beneath him, just an illusion of solid ground, or allowing the tide to pull him into that bottomless fathom. The world had moved around him while he stood there as a boy who tried to avoid drunken fists, as a young man who went off to war because it was the only option, as an invalided soldier whose hands could no longer perform surgery. Then Sherlock had come sweeping into his life and he almost let him pull him into the ocean, but he hesitated, in fear or mistrust, and he was left standing there as Sherlock fell from a rooftop, and he told himself he was grateful that he never let himself be swept in because he would surely have drowned without Sherlock there. 

Then Mary came, and he let himself be carried in a bit, thinking she would be a reliable life vest, but she did the unthinkable and he was suddenly struggling in the water with a baby in his arms and left wondering why he ever bothered to trust anyone. 

But Sherlock had pulled him back to shore. He had taken John and Rosie in, made them his family, and made no demands on either of them. 

John stood on that edge and felt that inexorable pull towards the unknown, and he wasn’t sure he was content to let the world continue moving around him. But he also wasn’t ready to make that decision, to wade in and let himself feel all those emotions that being out there would reveal. He knew they were there, but fully acknowledging them when there was a distinct possibility they would never be reciprocated in the same way was terrifying. Not when they had remained so long ignored by all parties involved.

Rosie was singing to herself behind him while he watched as the sun started to rise over the water towards the east, painting streaks of magenta and burnt orange over the gunmetal waves.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s deep voice spoke from over his shoulder, and he just managed to keep from jumping out of his skin before he turned to look and saw Sherlock’s eyes on him. 

Sherlock stepped up next to him, holding out a thermos and a paper bag. John took the thermos and took a careful sip, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the lid before the first amazing taste of high quality beans hit his tongue and he hummed in appreciation. “Ta, this is fantastic.”

Sherlock nodded, then reached into the bag and pulled out what looked like a blueberry muffin before passing the bag to John, who reached in and took out his own muffin. There was another left in the bag for Rosie whenever she was ready for it.

He watched as Sherlock took a bite of the muffin, crumbs falling from the pastry and he leaned forward before they landed on his linen shirt. He hastily wiped the crumbs from his chin. John couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face. 

“Yes, you’re right,” he agreed.

“I usually am. What about?”

“The view. It’s beautiful,” he said, eyes lingering on Sherlock for a moment before he turned his eyes back to the horizon where it was now a light pink as the sky itself brightened to a soft blue. 

He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him, but he kept his face turned away, and took another sip of his coffee. When he went to take a bite of his muffin, he did the same crumb evading maneuver Sherlock had a moment before but wasn’t nearly as successful. He brushed awkwardly at his shirt with his hand holding the muffin, but that did nothing except shake more crumbs onto his shirt. He sighed in exasperation, but his breath caught when Sherlock’s hand reached out and gently wiped the mess away, long fingers pressing lightly into his skin through the thin material of his shirt.

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on Sherlock’s hand that had stopped brushing at crumbs, but hadn’t moved away.

“Thank you,” he forced out, his voice far too rough, and Sherlock’s hand dropped away from his chest as if electrified. He looked up and their eyes locked for a moment before Sherlock looked away again, color tingeing high on his cheeks.

“You’re welcome. Can’t have you looking like a complete mess in front of the locals.”

John looked around at the empty beach.

“What locals? There’s no one else here.”

“The fish, John.”

“Oh, of course, how could I forget the fish?”

“How, indeed?”

“Daddy, I’m hungry!”

John turned to look at Rosie, who had wandered over a few meters away from where they stood. He turned back to Sherlock who held up the bag in smug satisfaction at having thought of bringing food when it was obvious that John had not. 

“What luck, then! Sherlock brought you a muffin,” he called down to her, and she jumped up from her place in the sand where she had been examining something and ran over to them. 

She stood in front of Sherlock, hopping up and down in excitement. “Is it chocolate? Is it chocolate? Chocolate!”

“Blueberry, Watson,” Sherlock informed her and she pouted for a moment before smiling. 

“I like blueberries. I like chocolate, but I like blueberries, too.”

“Maybe we can get chocolate later,” Sherlock told her as he handed her the muffin, which she grabbed and took a huge bite of.

“Chocolate?” she asked, crumbs flying everywhere and her mouth full of pastry.

“Chew first, then talk,” John said, somehow managing to keep a straight face.

“Hm, yes, chocolate,” Sherlock answered her question. “Maybe chocolate ice cream?”

Rosie’s eyes went completely round and wide at the possibility of chocolate ice cream and she stamped her feet excitedly. 

“Whee, I’m so excited!” 

“Well, you have to ask your father first,” Sherlock reminded her, silver eyes flashing up at John with a wicked glint.

Rosie rounded on him instantly. “Please, Daddy? Please can we have chocolate ice cream?” she begged, eyes pleading and her small fists held together under her chin, little fingers crushing the muffin that was still held in them.

John sent a heatless glare at Sherlock, who was visibly biting back a grin at the scene playing out before he turned back to Rosie. “If you and Sherlock eat all your dinner, then yes, we can go get ice cream after.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John smirked up at him. Two can play these games.

Rosie spun and looked at Sherlock. “You have to eat all your dinner so we can get ice cream.”

“I believe you have to eat all of yours as well, Miss Rosie.”

“I always eat my dinner. You never do.”

John quickly turned his snort of laughter into a cough and Sherlock really did send a glare at him for that. He held back the desire to stick his tongue out at him. 

“Yes, fine, I will eat my dinner and you will eat yours, and then we can get ice cream.”

Rosie eyed him warily, small lips puckered out in a thoughtful pout. “Pinky swear?” she asked, sticking her whole hand out in offering.

“That’s a pretty serious swear to make someone, Watson,” Sherlock responded shrewdly.

Rosie’s eyes narrowed in intensity, in no mood to be intimidated by Sherlock. “Chocolate ice cream,” she reminded him, shaking her whole hand emphatically.

Dark blue and sea-green eyes were locked together and after several moments of silence, Sherlock reached out and looped one long pinky finger around a small pinky and gave it a brisk shake.

“Pinky swear,” Sherlock intoned with all the gravity the situation warranted. 

“Yay!” Rosie squealed in delight. Whether it was over managing to obtain the promise or the prospect of ice cream, John honestly wasn’t sure which one was more exciting for her. She took another crumbly bite of what was left of her mutilated muffin, then took off down the sand. 

John had watched the whole interaction, which had the intensity of the final match at Wimbledon as it played out, and as soon as Rosie took off he let out the bubble of laughter that had lodged in his chest during the whole exchange. Sherlock straightened up and looked at him, a brow arched primly, and John laughed more.

“She has you wrapped around that pinky of hers,” John smiled as his laughter ebbed away with the occasional giggle. “I swear she has more success getting you to eat than I ever have.”

Sherlock sniffed delicately, a large hand coming up to flick invisible lint, or muffin crumbs, from his shirt front. 

“You didn’t promise chocolate ice cream,” Sherlock replied, eyes slanted at him, a playful smile on his lips and John giggled again.

“True. Missed opportunity, there. Never thought to consider you might be sweets motivated,” John grinned.

“Probably for the best. I’d be the size of Mycroft by now if you had,” Sherlock responded.

They both managed to hold a straight face for roughly five seconds before breaking out into laughter. Sherlock’s deep chuckle and John’s high giggle mingled together in a bubble of mirth around them and John let himself live in that moment for a while. A happy Sherlock was truly something to behold and he would hold on to that as long as he could.

Their laughter eventually died down, hiccoughing into the random chuckle until both were left with content smiles on their faces, the color high on both of their cheeks. Rosie continued to build sandcastles in the near distance while the surf lapped at their ankles. 

“You know, I’m actually not that fond of chocolate ice cream,” Sherlock mentioned. “I prefer-.”

“Strawberry,” John cut in with a smile. “Yes, I know.”

Sherlock held his eyes, a small smile on his face, and John felt far warmer than the weather and the rising sun could account for. He cleared his throat before turning back to look at Rosie and forced himself to take a fortifying sip of his coffee.

“Reckon we should head back in a bit. Get swimsuits and enjoy a proper beach stay.”

“Good luck convincing her to leave for any amount of time,” Sherlock said, nodding his chin towards Rosie as she concentrated on getting a pyramid of sand higher. 

“Well, if you tell her, she’ll be less likely to fuss about it. She’ll do pretty much anything you ask,’ John wheedled.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, popping the “p” at the end. “I’m not doing your dirty work.”

John sighed dramatically. “Fine, I’ll tell her. You’re putting the sunscreen on her, though,” John decreed and then kicked his foot in the surf, splashing the bottom half of Sherlock’s legs. 

“Very mature, John,” Sherlock drawled. 

“Well, I am a grown-up,” John said, walking backward to keep an eye on Sherlock as he went towards Rosie.

“Questionable.”

“Fact.”

“I know children taller than you.”

“Oi! Really? Short jokes?”

“It’s not a joke, it’s a fact.”

“You and your facts,” John grumbled good-naturedly before turning around as he caught up to Rosie. 

It turned out that the promise of returning to actually get in the water was more than enough to convince her it was worth going to the cottage to get changed. John quickly picked up the few beach toys he had brought down, and then they were all on their way back. 

Once in the cottage, John managed to wrangle Rosie long enough to strip her of her clothes and pull her bathing suit on. He was fairly sure it would have been easier to put an octopus in a bathing suit than a wriggling three-year-old, but he wasn’t one to back away from a challenge. As soon as she was done, he released her back into the wild, listening to the sound of her running down the hallway to her room to talk to the snail she found the day before. 

He pulled on his own swimwear, then tossed on a vest and grabbed two beach towels before he went back down to prepare them a picnic lunch. 

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, though, he saw Sherlock with his head in the open fridge and an open basket on the table behind him. John let his eyes roam over the strong lines of his back and legs, the pleasant surprise of the lush arse, and managed to have his eyes back in an appropriate location when Sherlock pulled out what looked like a charcuterie board and noticed John watching him.

“Are you packing lunch for us?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, no doubt annoyed that John would ask such an obvious question when all the evidence in front of him clearly indicated the answer.

“Of course. Watson is worse than you when she’s hungry and I have a feeling we’ll be out for a while. Thought it would be better to be prepared.”

“I think they call it ‘hangry’,” John replied.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“When your hunger makes you angry. ‘Hangry’,” John explained.

Sherlock blinked at him for a moment. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I never said it was smart. I was just saying that’s what they call it. And it definitely makes sense. Rosie can get very hangry.”

“Please stop.”

“Sometimes you get hangry.”

“I most assuredly do not.”

John shrugged. “If you say so.”

Sherlock eyed him for a moment, then placed the board in the basket he had already filled with a few lunch and snack items. John walked over and found a few water bottles to toss in the basket, and an ice pack in the freezer to help keep everything cold while Sherlock continued to look through the fridge. 

John turned when he heard the sound of Rosie running quickly down the stairs.

“I’m ready!” she announced as she ran into the kitchen, bare feet slapping loudly on the tile floor.

“Go get your shoes. We’re almost ready,” John told her, dropping a hand over her curls as she ran past in search of her shoes.

He was on the hunt for the sunblock in the small bag he had filled with beach supplies and the towels he had brought down when Sherlock spun around to stare at him.

“When have I ever been angry because I was hungry?” he demanded and John bit back a snort of laughter.

“How about that time after the case with the woman and the red shoes? You had barely eaten in a week, and when it was finally solved you were so hungry that the idea of waiting for takeaway had you deducing that poor server to the point he was in tears. Or the time when you threw that bowling ball at a wall because your order was delivered with chicken instead of the pork you ordered? Or how about last week, when you snapped at me for ordering dinner for me and Rosie, but not you, because you ‘weren’t hungry’, and then you proceeded to lay on the sofa in a strop for the rest of the evening?”

“You ended up sharing your tikka masala with me.”

“Yes, well. I wasn’t going to eat it all, anyway.”

“You ordered the garlic naan specifically for me. I know you prefer the plain.”

“I feel like we’ve moved off-topic.”

“Fine. I may get...slightly irritated when I’m hungry,” Sherlock conceded grumpily.

“Throwing that bowling ball was both impressive and quite possibly more terrifying than you shooting bullets at the walls. I’m so glad we got rid of that thing.”

“We didn’t get rid of it.”

“True. I got rid of it.”

“Wait, what?”

John was saved from answering by Rosie’s arrival back into the kitchen, hands and feet dirty, with no sign of her shoes anywhere.

“I thought you were getting your shoes on.”

“Um…,” she replied, looked down at her feet, then shrugged.

“What were you doing, then?”

“I was looking for a friend for Ice Cream in the garden.”

John shook his head. “Ok, well, let’s try again on the shoes so we can get down to the water.”

It took another 30 minutes before they finally managed to leave the cottage and make their way back to the beach. There were a few small families there when they arrived and they found an empty spot somewhat away from the others. Sherlock set up their umbrella while John did their blanket and Rosie upended the bag of her beach toys. Sherlock rounded her up and John grinned as Sherlock tried to keep her in one place long enough to actually apply sunblock. He took mercy on him halfway through and they tackled her together, John working the sunblock onto her legs while Sherlock did her face.

When she was done, John pulled off his shirt and started applying the sunblock to his own skin. While he tended to go more gold than burn, he didn’t want to take any chances. He was reaching awkwardly around his back when Sherlock huffed and grabbed the bottle from the ground and stood behind him. 

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you, obviously,” Sherlock said.

A moment later John felt the twin sensations of the cool sunblock and a large warm hand as Sherlock spread lotion across his back and rubbed it into his skin. His hands were firm, confident and methodical, as he worked across John’s back and shoulders. They didn’t hesitate over his scar, didn’t shy away from the top edge of his bathing trunks. 

John, however, felt every brush of long fingers and press of his palms in his soul. It wasn’t sensual, it was sunblock, but it felt like so much more. He kept his eyes open, watching Rosie as she filled a bucket with sand, and tried to keep himself from leaning into Sherlock’s hands. 

“Thank you,” he forced out, his voice barely catching on the way out, but even that was more than enough of a tell for Sherlock to pick up on. He didn’t mention it, though, and John relaxed a moment before turning to him. “Shall I get you, then?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I put some on before we left.”

“Oh, ok,” John said, ignoring the way he felt a shade of disappointment at not being able to put his hands on Sherlock’s skin. He had touched him before, of course. Dabbed on antibiotic ointment and had given him stitches a time or ten. Changed bandages and even helped him bathe before, but it was always while he wore the mantle of a doctor, not of a friend. Not of...maybe something more. 

“Daddy, I wanna swim!” Rosie called out.

“One mo’, Rose,” John replied and turned to Sherlock. “You coming?”

“I’ll be there in a moment. You two go ahead,” the taller man answered, not quite meeting John’s eye.

“You sure?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.”

John watched him a moment, then gave himself a mental shrug and grabbed Rosie’s waiting hand and they made their way to the water. Rosie gripped his hand and pulled him into the crashing waves without a moment of acclimating to the cool of the water compared to the warm air that caressed their skin. When Rosie was up to her waist, John pulled her up to his hip and walked out until the water hit just below his ribs. Rosie slammed her hands down into the salty water and giggled in delight at the spray. They played in the water, John jumping up occasionally for the water to buoy them over the top of cresting waves, Rosie smiling and laughing the whole time. After several minutes Sherlock appeared at their side, Rosie reaching for him with her small arms, and John released her to him. Her small arms went directly around his neck and Sherlock placed an absent-minded kiss to her temple. 

Where Sherlock was standing John could clearly see the scar from Mary’s bullet to his heart. It was a nearly perfect circle with its raised edge and slightly puckered skin reaching towards its center. Across one shoulder was a raised rope-like scar, one of a few that criss crossed his back, from his time spent imprisoned in Serbia. John had seen them before when he cared for Sherlock after he was shot. Sherlock had given him the story of where they came from with a blank face and haunted eyes. John had reached out and pulled him into a gentle hug, mindful of the scar his wife had added to Sherlock’s body, and they had never spoken of it again. Not the scars, or the torture, or the hug. Not the way John had buried his nose in Sherlock’s curls and breathed him in or the way Sherlock had tucked his face into John’s neck and the feel of hot tears soaking through his shirt and into his skin. 

Perhaps that was why Sherlock hadn’t wanted help with sunblock and needed a moment alone before coming in. John had carried his scar for longer than Sherlock and still felt a modicum of self-consciousness when revealing it in public places. It made sense that he might have needed a moment to himself before he removed his armour and allowed others to see what he hid. Sherlock often liked to pretend that he was above such things, his body merely transport and all that bullshit, but John knew Sherlock better than that. The man was a riptide. He appeared placid and calm on the outside, but inside he was churning with more emotion than John had ever seen in anyone. 

Sherlock looked at him, likely reading all of his thoughts, and he frowned slightly. John turned his eyes to Rosie, who was oblivious to the scars under her palms, and silently vowed to himself that he would do whatever he needed to do to show Sherlock that he was not his scars. They told a part of his story, but they were not his whole story. Like the sea glass they had found. It looked different than it was before, frosted and textured instead of clear and smooth, but it was still glass. 

John mentally shook his head at himself and pushed out all thoughts beyond spending time with his daughter and his best friend without any other responsibilities. He had a whole day of blue skies, sun, beach, waves, and then ice cream in front of him.

*

Sherlock had driven them into the small town after dinner. Rosie talked non-stop the entire 20-minute drive about how she wanted to get an ice cream cone, not a cup, and definitely not an ice lolly, but ice cream. Chocolate. And hundreds-and-thousands. Rainbow hundreds-and-thousands. No, chocolate hundreds-and-thousands. No, rainbow, definitely rainbow. 

John had glanced at Sherlock once during the endless chatter and after nearly biting through his lip to keep from laughing at the expression on his friend’s face, he rolled the window down and watched as they drove past homes and eventually entered the town proper. 

“Mrs. Moo’s,” Sherlock declared as they made their way down the pavement after finding a place to park, “has the best ice cream in Britain.” 

“That’s a pretty big claim,” John said. 

“It’s official. It was voted best in the country in the local newspaper.”

“I’m sure there was no bias there.”

“Of course not. Just wait. You’ll see,” Sherlock smirked.

“Swing me!” Rosie suddenly demanded, holding out both her hands to the men walking beside her, and they each grabbed the offered hand automatically.

“Manners, miss,” John reminded her while she jumped up and down as they continued to walk.

“Swing me, please!” she corrected, then ran forward and John and Sherlock pulled up their arms a bit to allow her a moment of airtime, legs kicking wildly, before bringing her back down where she giggled. “Again, again!”

They went that way the rest of the short walk to the ice cream shoppe. Sherlock shortened his stride to match John’s, and both men let the little girl between them swing to her heart’s content.

When they arrived at Mrs. Moo’s, there was a decent-sized queue, so they took their place to wait. 

“Daddy, I want chocolate!” Rosie reminded him for the sixth time in the last 15 minutes and John nodded. 

“Yes, yes, I know. Chocolate. Sherlock, did you know she wanted chocolate?”

“I believe I heard her mention it once.”

“Twice, at least.”

“Or twenty.”

Rosie watched both of them, tugging on their hands as they grinned at each other.

“Rainbow hundreds-and-thousands.”

“Those she definitely mentioned twenty times,” Sherlock said and John grinned. 

“Up, please.” Rosie pulled her hand from John’s and turned to reach up to Sherlock, who bent down and lifted her easily before propping her on his hip. One small hand immediately went to Sherlock’s hair and she played with his curls, only earning one gentle reminder to please not pull. She stayed there happily until after they placed their order.

They managed to snag a small table with two chairs outside. Rosie moved from Sherlock’s hip to his knee while they enjoyed their cold treats. They spoke of nothing important and it was one of those evenings that John loved where they just spent time together and the conversation never felt strained. 

Rosie’s ice cream dripped and John wondered if more made it into her mouth or onto her shirt, but she was more than happy with her current situation in life. She even allowed him to sweep in periodically to wipe her cheeks and chin in an attempt to save any clean spot of her clothes. 

One chocolate drip made it past his attempts to clean, though, and fell right on top of Sherlock’s knee. John reached out automatically with the napkin to spot clean the chocolate and barely heard the sharp intake of breath from the man. 

“Sorry,” John replied, unsure if he was apologizing for the chocolate drip on his clothes or for touching him without warning. 

Sherlock shook his head, turning his attention back to his strawberry ice cream. “Nothing to apologize for.”

John offered a half-smile and removed his hand and the napkin from his knee. “We’ll need to treat that when we get back or it will stain.”

Sherlock gave a small smile. “I hardly think chocolate is the worst thing I have had stain any of my clothes,” he reminded him and John let out the laugh that bubbled up at that.

“Fair enough,” he agreed.

They fell into silence, then, everyone eating, with John occasionally playing referee to Rosie’s dripping ice cream and any clean surface left. When they were nearly finished a woman who had been sitting at a table across from them with a little girl close to Rosie’s age stood up and smiled at them as she and the child were about to leave.

“Pardon me, but you have such a beautiful family,” she gushed, “I just had to say something.”

John blinked up at her. Immediately, “We’re not a couple” jumped to his head, to the tip of his tongue, the years-old response to those who read more into his relationship with Sherlock than was there. It was a response born out of frustration. They weren’t a couple, never had been, no matter what his feelings on the matter were. He was content with their friendship and having it thrown into his face that they weren’t more, always hurt more than he would ever admit.

He swallowed it down this time, though. This woman didn’t know them. She had just happened to see and observe them for a moment in time. She had called them a “beautiful family” and John couldn’t deny that they were, in fact, a family. An unconventional one, for sure, but a family nonetheless. One he was proud of. He smiled as he reached out to tuck one of Rosie’s blonde curls behind her ear and out of her ice cream.

“Thank you,” he replied, sincerity clear in his voice, and he elected to ignore the way Sherlock’s eyes locked on to him at that moment. It was anyone’s guess what Sherlock could read in that response or John’s face or how he held his hands. Better to just pretend that he wasn’t staring at him and focus his attention on his daughter.

“You’re welcome. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said as she took the child’s hand and they went on their way. 

John watched them for a moment, still aware and still ignoring Sherlock’s eyes on him, until he could no longer avoid its pull and let his own eyes drift up to an aquamarine gaze.

“I think you might be right,” he said in an attempt to break whatever train of thought Sherlock was on regarding the interaction with the woman.

“Of course I’m right,” Sherlock agreed immediately. Then, “About what?”

“This ice cream really might be the best in Britain.”

Sherlock watched him thoughtfully for a moment and just when John feared he wouldn’t get out of explaining why he said what he said to that woman in regards to her obvious belief that they were indeed a couple and Rosie their child, Sherlock smiled and leaned back in his chair.

“Indeed it is.” 

Both men finished their ice cream and Sherlock lowered his voice and shared his deductions about the people around them while Rosie worked on finishing her cone. John snorted with laughter at certain revelations or his brows would arch up in surprise at others. It was comfortable and entertaining and John loved every moment of it.

When Rosie was finished and another napkin sacrificed to the lost cause of trying to clean the chocolate stains on her face, they rose and made their way back to the car. Once back at the cottage, Sherlock offered to bathe her and put her to bed and Rosie was more than happy with that plan, so John gave her goodnight kisses and sent them both off upstairs. 

He went about cleaning up their dinner and lunch dishes, then went to check that their swimsuits were dry so they would be ready in the morning. When he went back into the sitting room in the front of the house, he picked up the novel he had been working on and settled onto one of the chairs by the empty fireplace. His mind wouldn’t focus on the words in front of him, though. Instead, he found himself listening for Sherlock and Rosie. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in his chair, and felt something sharp poke him from his pocket. He reached in and pulled out a small amber-colored shard of sea glass.

It was one of the pieces Rosie and Sherlock had collected during their visit to the beach that morning. His thumb ran over the cloudy surface in small, unconscious circles while he listened to the sounds of Sherlock putting Rosie to bed. The familiar pattern of requests for tucks and kisses and a song drifted down the stairs. After a few moments, he heard the gentle tune of _Au Clair de la Lune_ in Sherlock’s rich baritone and Rosie’s higher voice.

Sherlock had taught her the song. He had been singing it to her since she was 3 or 4 months old. John had come home early from the clinic one afternoon and when he got up the stairs, he didn’t see his friend or his daughter. Just when he was about to head downstairs to see if Mrs. Hudson had her while Sherlock went God-only-knew-where, he had heard singing and the sound of feet pacing on the floor above him. In his bedroom. He had climbed the stairs to his room carefully, the voice getting louder but still soft. When he reached the top and peeked around the open door, he saw them.

Sherlock, barefoot with black trousers and his blue dressing gown stretching towards the floor, held an incredibly small Rosie in his arms, expertly swaddled in a soft muslin blanket with bumblebees printed along the fabric, and he was singing her to sleep. John watched as Sherlock walked steadily towards the far window, his back to John, his voice soft but true as he sang the French lullaby. 

When he reached the window, he turned and his song faltered as he saw John watching him, but he quickly recovered. He sang the last refrain, a rather risque little line as for some reason children’s lullabies were wont to be, and carefully laid Rosie in the cot that stood beside John’s bed. 

John’s heart had thudded hard in his chest as he watched the little tableau in his small bedroom. The quiet loveliness of Sherlock singing a lullaby to an infant, John’s daughter, as he rocked her to sleep in his arms made his chest ache with fondness for the man. He had been so worried that Sherlock would grow tired of him and the restrictions having an infant in their flat would necessarily put on them, but he had slowly begun to accept that maybe it would be okay. That maybe he could have Sherlock and Rosie. 

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock suddenly asked as he held out a cup of tea for John. 

“What?” John asked, blinking out of his memories before he reached for the cup with a smile. His fingers brushed Sherlock’s, as they always did during the exchange of cups of tea, and as always it sent a small thrill down John’s spine. He smiled his thanks as Sherlock settled onto the opposite side of the couch. “Oh, er. I was just thinking about the first time I heard you sing that song to Rosie,” he confessed.

Sherlock hummed in response before he blew on the hot liquid in his cup and took a careful sip. 

“My grand-mère used to sing it to me when I was a boy,” Sherlock said and John turned to look at him. 

“I didn’t know that,” John replied, wondering at himself why he never asked where the song came from. “Were you close to her?”

“Yes. Mycroft and I used to go visit her over the summer holiday when we were young. Three weeks of no rules and the run of the entire estate,” Sherlock answered. “She kept beehives on the property. I used to sit and watch them for hours as they worked collecting nectar from the flowers in the garden and then returning to the hives. They’re fascinating creatures, bees.”

John watched, completely enraptured by Sherlock’s smile as he shared his memories of his grandmother and her home.

“I’ve often thought that I’d like to do the same one day.”

“Do what?”

“Keep a few beehives.”

“Kind of hard to do in the city, isn’t it?”

“There are rooftop hives in lots of cities now, but I imagine it would be easier in the countryside.”

“You’d leave London?” John asked, completely caught off guard at the turn in the conversation. He ignored the way his stomach twisted in on itself.

“Maybe one day,” Sherlock replied quietly.

John felt his stomach drop. He hadn’t considered a possible future where Sherlock would ever be further than a cab ride away. He hadn’t considered a future where he was further than a staircase away, either, not in years, and he found the possibility left a horrible taste in his mouth. He took a sip of his tea to try and smother that bitterness, but he wasn’t surprised when it didn’t make any difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this second day at the beach! Kudos and comments are always appreciated and treasured as much as sea glass. 💜


	4. Chapter 3

They woke to grey skies and steady rain on their last full day at the cottage, but they didn’t let the weather keep them from enjoying themselves. Even Rosie found ways to occupy herself, and John counted himself lucky that she didn’t spend the entire day crying and whinging about being stuck inside. They played and read books with her when she demanded their attention and helped her “play” with Ice Cream, which mainly consisted of her holding him in her palm and squealing gleefully whenever he poked out of his shell. When there had been a lull in the rain that afternoon, Sherlock had taken Rosie down to the water to hunt for more sea glass treasure that the storm might have brought to shore. 

While they were out, John prepared the lasagna that was in the fridge for their dinner. It was something both Sherlock and Rosie would eat without complaint and John was glad he had decided to save it for their last evening there. There was bread to go with it, and he put together a salad as well with fresh tomatoes from the garden. 

Sherlock and Rosie returned before dinner with five new pieces of glass to show off. John smiled and praised her on her hard work. She smiled proudly and ran off to play somewhere in the house. John turned back to find Sherlock observing the kitchen.

“Dinner should be ready in about 10 minutes, I think. According to the instructions, anyway,” John told him. “Did you two have fun?”

“Yes. She found three of those pieces herself. She was very proud of herself, as she should be. She’s a very clever child.”

“She is, isn’t she?” John agreed. 

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, then fell silent. John watched him for a moment, then went to the fridge to find salad dressing. 

“Wine with dinner?” Sherlock suddenly asked and John turned back to look at him. 

“Perfect. Red if you find one, but white would be fine.”

Sherlock nodded and went off to a different section of the house. John found the salad dressing and closed the fridge door. He finished setting the table and had called in Rosie to wash her hands before eating when Sherlock returned with a rather expensive looking bottle of merlot in his hands. He pulled the lasagna from the oven and prepared a plate for Rosie while Sherlock opened the bottle. 

Rosie bounced from one topic to the next as they ate, while John and Sherlock attempted to keep up with the endless thread of conversation that she steered them through. When she was finished eating, she asked to be excused to go out to play in the garden and since the rain had yet to return, John agreed. She ran out the door before he could remind her to put on shoes. 

“Just try to not jump in the mud!” he called out through the open door, but he knew even as he said it that it was a lost cause. 

John turned his attention back to his friend, who was tearing off bits of the bread and dragging it through the tomato sauce on his plate before eating. 

“You know, for not being her biological parent, I think she’s more like you than me,” he laughed.

Sherlock looked up at him with an expression that John couldn’t quite make out, but then his brows drew down in curiosity. 

“How do you mean?”

“Just that she reminds me a lot of you. She’s curious, always wants to know the answers to every question she can think of. She’s impulsive, quick, always jumping from one thing to another.”

“I think you’re confusing similarities to me that are actually you, John.”

“How so?”

“She’s brave, and considerate, and kind. She always wants to make sure you feel included in whatever she’s doing. She’s smart and completely fearless. Look at the way she runs into the waves even though she cannot swim yet. No fear.”

John stares at his friend for several moments. Sherlock looked completely serious as he listed off qualities of Rosie that John would attribute to Sherlock rather than him. 

“You mean that, don’t you?”

“Of course I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Fine. We’ll cut it down the middle and say she’s both of us.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up slightly in the corner at that, giving him an almost shy expression that John found completely charming. 

“Wrong on one account, though,” he said and tried not to grin at the look on Sherlock’s face at the idea of him being wrong about something. 

“Wrong about what?”

“I’m not fearless. Brave, sometimes, sure. When I need to be, I like to think that I’m brave enough. But I definitely have fear,” he confessed, then took a sip of his wine. 

He watched as Sherlock examined him and considered all the things he was afraid of. He was worried about losing Sherlock again. He was scared of being too slow or too far away when Sherlock might need him. He was filled with fear of the fact that Rosie was growing quickly and they were running out of time to share 221B as she would soon need her own room. Their time together as flatmates was slipping away and there was nothing he could do to stop the inescapable tide of a growing child. 

And he was terrified of his feelings for Sherlock. Well, not the feelings themselves. He had long ago accepted that he was in love with his best friend. No, he was worried about his friend knowing the actual depth of those feelings. It was obvious they cared for one another, and anyone who ever spent more than a minute with Sherlock in Rosie’s company could see how much he loved, truly loved, and adored her. But brotherly love, whether of blood or choice, and love of a child are not the same as romantic love. He knew Sherlock loved him, but that didn’t mean Sherlock loved him beyond the bounds of their friendship. He had accepted that, but he did live in fear that Sherlock would one day realize that John’s love for him went beyond their agreed parameters. Their “married to my work” and “I’m not gay” boundaries. He’d had his sexual identity crisis before Sherlock fell and had made a shaky agreement with himself that even though he had never been attracted to a man before, he was very much attracted to his flatmate, and that that was okay. That it was all fine. After he fell, and Ella confronted him with the simple task of voicing those things he wanted to tell Sherlock and never did, he finally admitted out loud that he had been in love with his best friend. Not to her, of course, but to the quiet of the bedsit he had moved to when Baker Street held too many ghosts. He admitted to being completely and utterly head over heels for the man. 

When Sherlock had fallen, John grieved like a widower. His life came to a complete standstill and he felt more broken in those early months than he had from his return from Afghanistan. Mary came in and seemed to accept those broken pieces and shoved them back together into something vaguely John Watson shaped through sheer force of will and sellotape. When Sherlock returned, all of those old feelings came rushing back, along with hurt and anger and confusion, and he had lashed out in anger because anger was easier to accept and manage at that moment. 

And despite everything they went through, all the heartache and anger and his brief marriage to a bloody assassin, and then the somehow miraculous addition of Rosie to their lives, his love had only continued to grow. 

He was hyper-aware of Sherlock’s gaze locked on him and he couldn’t have said what he thought the detective might have been reading off of him. He had no idea what information about himself or his feelings or thoughts he was broadcasting at the moment, and even though there was fear there, he tried to not think about it. 

Sherlock leaned towards him across the table. “John, I…” he started, but Rosie had chosen that moment to run back into the room, and John wasn’t sure if he was grateful for her timing or not.

“Daddy, I want a bedtime story,” she informed him and John glanced at the clock, somewhat surprised by the late hour. No wonder she was asking for her story.

“Of course, darling. Let’s get you in the bath real quick and then we’ll get ready for bed,” he said as his eyes quickly took in the mud that splattered her entire bottom half and the smudge on her cheek from her hands. 

Rosie cheered in delight at the prospect of a bath and nearly ran off before Sherlock managed to snatch her off the floor in his arms.

“Whoa, Watson, settle down. You’re completely filthy,” he chided and plopped her on his knee without any regard to his fine clean clothes or the mud all over her, and completely ignoring John’s aborted attempt to remind him of that fact. “Did you find anything interesting?”

“I found a butterfly! Its wings were all wet because of the rain, though.”

“That’s alright. The wings will dry soon enough and it can fly off.”

Rosie nodded her agreement to his statement. “I found a new snail, too! Maybe Ice Cream and the new one can be friends!”

“It is always nice to have a friend,” Sherlock agreed, and John didn’t miss the verdigris eyes that shifted up to him for a moment before he turned his attention back to Rosie. “We’ll have to put Ice Cream where you found the new one tomorrow before we leave.”

Rosie pouted at the reminder that Ice Cream would not be coming back to London with them and the look reminded John so strongly of Sherlock that he barely contained the snort of laughter that bubbled up. Sherlock’s eyes shot at him yet again, and at John’s smirk, the taller man rolled his eyes. John did laugh then.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock sighed and Rosie gasped with all the scandalized intensity only a three-year-old could.

“You said a mean word,” she informed him solemnly, and Sherlock turned his expression to appear properly apologetic for his misdeeds. 

“Quite right, Miss Rosie. Please excuse my poor manners.”

“Of course!” Rosie forgave him magnanimously. “You need to tell Daddy you’re sorry, too.”

Sherlock turned to John, and John bit his lips down to keep the smile from his face. He raised his brows expectantly. 

“Forgive me, John, for any hurt I may have caused you,” Sherlock said, no trace of irony in his tone as John was instantly thrown back into an underground Tube car with a bomb steadily ticking down to their deaths while Sherlock begged forgiveness on his knees. 

John swallowed past the hard lump that appeared in his throat, all of his earlier playfulness completely forgotten.

“Of course, I forgive you,” John replied, recalling those painful minutes when he was convinced that he was about to die after just finding out that Sherlock was still alive. How unfair life had seemed in those moments. Even then, he still couldn’t give voice to the feelings in his heart. No wonder he still held them so close to his chest this far down the road. He was definitely not a fearless man.

Sherlock’s lips quirked up in a small, private smile, and John knew he was recalling the same memory. He stood up, cleared his throat, and walked over to them. Rosie reached up and he carefully held her out to not get mud all over his clothes. A glance down at Sherlock confirmed that his trousers were nearly as muddy as Rosie’s now. 

“Ok, Peppa, look at this mess you made,” he said and Rosie giggled, then tried her best to snort like a pig.

“Muddy puddles!” she cried delightedly and John snorted. 

“Yeah, I see you found the muddy puddles. Alright, off we go to the bath, then,” he said, continuing to hold her out at arm’s length where she alternately giggled and snorted. He crossed the kitchen and made his way to the staircase and up the stairs to the bath before calling over his shoulder that he’d be back down in a tic.

A quick bath with as many bubbles as Rosie could ever wish for, then snuggly PJs, and Rosie was tucked into the soft pink sheets and duvet with her new rabbit held safely in her arms. He heard the shower running as he read her a bedtime story, and as usual one story turned into three, which was why he was still reading when Sherlock finished with his shower and came into the room just as John put down the last book. 

“Sherlock! Tuck me in, please,” Rosie requested, eyes bright and smile wide as she watched him walk in. 

He crossed over to the bed, dutifully removed the duvet that covered her small form, then carefully replaced it and tucked it in around her. She smiled at the familiar routine and John watched the interaction thoughtfully. 

“Goodnight kisses,” she reminded him, and Sherlock bent over obediently and placed a kiss atop her blonde curls. 

“Goodnight, honeybee,” his rich baritone whispered and John’s chest tightened at the endearment that fell so genuinely from his lips. He realized that he was witnessing something he never had before; the small routines that were followed when Sherlock was the one to put her to bed rather than John. It was a private moment, and John almost felt like an intruder, but neither Sherlock nor Rosie seemed to mind his presence. 

“Love you,” Rosie yawned sleepily as Sherlock pushed a curl back from her forehead. 

“I love you, too,” Sherlock said, and John’s heart thumped hard in his chest at the exchange. 

Sherlock rose from his crouch beside her bed, eyes cast down and away from John as if he suddenly remembered that John was in the room and that this shared moment between him and Rosie had been on full display for an audience and he was waiting for criticism. 

He watched as Sherlock stepped out of the room without a further word, then he went to give his own goodnight kisses.

After she was settled, John went and took a quick shower. He changed into his pajamas, then made his way back downstairs after checking that Rosie was asleep in her room. He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle with fresh water and placed it on the hob. He pulled down mugs and found the tea. 

The small pile of sea glass that Rosie and Sherlock had collected caught his attention as it lay on the table. He walked over and picked out the piece that sparked the whole collection. The opaque azure glass was a decent size, perfect for rubbing between his thumb and index finger, which was exactly what he did while he waited for the water to boil. The cloudy glass was cool and light in his fingers, and he let his thoughts drift back to Sherlock’s bedtime routine with Rosie. The ease and simplicity that he told Rosie he loved her, the sincerity in the statement. He found himself momentarily fantasizing that the words were meant for him, instead. It was a selfish, dangerous thought, and he only held on to it for a moment, before banishing it away. 

The kettle started to whistle, and John swiftly pulled it off the hob to keep the sound from waking Rosie. He prepared their tea, then walked into the sitting room with both cups, not surprised to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, his nose buried in what looked like some kind of gardening book. He reached a mug out and Sherlock took it from his hands without even looking up.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock blew across the surface of the steaming liquid before he took a careful sip and John had to force himself to look away from the pout of Sherlock’s lips as he did so. 

“Learn anything new about gardening?” John asked quickly before sitting down on one of the armchairs across from the sofa. 

Sherlock smirked as he closed the book. “Hardly. Was just passing the time.”

John nodded and finding nothing to talk about, sipped his tea. 

“Would you like to sit in the garden? The rain seems to have moved off. There weren’t many clouds left when Rosie and I came back earlier,” Sherlock said, and there was something in his voice that John couldn’t quite describe. He was tempted to call it reservedness, but that didn’t make any sense when used to describe much of anything Sherlock did.

“Yeah, okay. That sounds nice.” 

“Great,” Sherlock said and took off into the kitchen before John had even stood up. 

When he finally did and made it into the kitchen, he found Sherlock pouring two glasses from the wine bottle they opened at dinner. 

“No sense in wasting a perfectly good wine,” Sherlock stated without looking up. 

“I wasn’t complaining,” John chuckled and put down his still hot tea to accept the glass Sherlock held out to him instead. 

“Grab a towel,” Sherlock called out as John walked across the kitchen to the garden door. “The bench might still be wet.”

John grabbed one of their beach towels from earlier and walked out to the bench set in the corner of the garden. The moon was heavy and full in the sky and John could clearly make his way through the garden without tripping on loose stones or clumps of earth. The bench was surrounded by a variety of flowers that had closed after the sun had gone down. It was still wet from the rain, so John wiped it down before folding the towel and laying it on the little table beside the bench.

The bench was still a bit damp when he sat, but he decided he didn’t care as he let his eyes wander around the beauty of the garden even during the night. Scents blended together, basil, the vines of the tomato plants, the wet earth from the rain, and flowers that John didn’t know enough about to say which ones added to the overall perfume. It wasn’t cloying, but it was rich, and John breathed it in deeply, eyes closed, head tipped back.

“I thought you’d enjoy it out here,” Sherlock’s voice came from beside him before the taller man sat down on the bench, long legs stretched out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankle. 

John smiled. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at his friend. Sherlock’s head was tipped back, his long pale neck on perfect display, gazing up at the night sky. He pointed with his free hand towards a specific spot.

“That’s Polaris. The North star. _‘It is the star to every wand’ring bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken’.”_

John sat up a bit to look at Sherlock more fully, a grin pulling at his lips. “Did you just point out something in the solar system?”

“I believe I pointed out Polaris, yes.”

“Huh. Was that Shakespeare?”

“Of course it was.”

“Look at you, pointing out stars and quoting Shakespeare. I wouldn’t have thought them important enough to bother remembering.”

“John, I will forgive you for making the assumption that I would ever delete the Bard.”

John chuckled, took a sip of his wine, and turned to look back up at the sky again.

“Where’s it from?”

“One of his sonnets. Sonnet 116, to be precise. A small part of it, anyway.”

“What was it about?”

“He was comparing love to the steadfastness of the guiding star. Should one find themselves lost or knocked off course, they could simply look up and find their way back home by finding Polaris. He was claiming that love, just like the North Star, remains true and constant.”

“That’s awfully romantic.”

“Well, it is Shakespeare.”

John smiled at that, glad that he was looking up and not at Sherlock as he spoke. It was almost too easy to understand exactly what Shakespeare was trying to say. Sherlock was John’s guiding star. He had been since the moment the man took one look at him and read his story from the way he stood and his mobile phone. Despite all that had happened to them, and it was a hell of a lot more than the average person probably dealt with, John still loved him. He could still look to Sherlock and know where he was meant to be. He could still find his way home.

They sat quietly for a long time after that, sipping their wine and listening to the music of the countryside at night. When his glass was empty, he played with the stem, rolling it between his fingers absently. He cleared his throat.

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

They turned to look at each other, small smiles pulling at both of their mouths as they spoke simultaneously. 

“You first,” Sherlock offered.

“Oh, er. I just wanted to say thank you, again, for putting this together. Rosie had a great time, as you know, but I really enjoyed myself as well. This was nice. Just... spending time together.”

“Good. I’m glad,” Sherlock replied, then opened and closed his mouth, as if there was something more he wanted to say, but didn’t know if he should. Or how to say it.

“Yeah, me too,” John said after giving Sherlock a moment to finish what he wanted to say, but the silence had simply stretched out instead.

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you know that Rosie means the world to me. I wouldn’t ever let any harm come to her. She’s…,” Sherlock paused, and John watched him as he seemed to sort through which words he wanted to use, saw them appear and be dismissed in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. “She’s important to me. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable this evening when I told her goodnight.”

John’s brows shot up in surprise before he started to shake his head. “No, Sherlock. God, no. You didn’t make me uncomfortable. I know you love Rosie. She needs to hear it. It’s important she knows that the people she loves love her back. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like you shouldn’t express that to her.”

“You haven’t. I just...It’s different knowing something versus hearing it, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose. But she should hear it. I’m glad you love her.”

“And what about you, John?”

“What about me?”

“Shouldn’t you hear it as well?”

John felt his chest tighten as his heart started to beat wildly in his chest. 

“Hear what?” he asked, because his thoughts were spinning dangerously out of control at the possible implications of what Sherock was saying.

“When you’re loved. Shouldn’t you be told? To know that you’re important to someone?” Sherlock asked. His eyes were on his hands, twisting on themselves in his lap. 

John quickly set his empty glass down on the table and turned to look at Sherlock again. Blood was rushing through his ears and he suddenly felt too warm. The atmosphere around the two of them on the bench was charged, or at least it felt that way to John. Did Sherlock feel it as well? Or was he nervous about something else? Was John reading too far into what Sherlock hadn’t yet said?

“Sherlock…,” he started, then stopped when the man shook his head, dark curls bouncing gently. 

“Please, John, let me speak. Please.”

It was the second please that had him close his mouth, teeth clicking together. 

“I’m afraid if I don’t say this now then I never will, and that isn’t fair to you or to me. Not anymore.” Sherlock took a deep breath, then looked up at John. “Yesterday evening. At the ice cream shoppe. That woman. You didn’t correct her when she assumed we were together. Why?”

John forced himself to breathe out slowly at his question. Why, indeed? He had stopped correcting people years ago. It still bothered him, but likely not for the reason that Sherlock and others supposed. The idea of explaining that terrified him, but the man deserved the truth.

“She said we have a beautiful family. You and Rosie are my family. There was nothing else to say except ‘thank you’.”

Sherlock stared at him silently, and John sighed.

“Sherlock, you and Rosie are the most important people in my life. You both are my world. And yes, I know that’s sentimental and hyperbole, but it doesn’t change the fact that I love both of you more than I ever thought would be possible. You and Rosie are my family. You’re the only family I want or need,” John stated. Sherlock was staring at him wide-eyed, but John had started speaking, and now he wasn’t able to stop. “I know it’s not what you signed up for all those years ago. You were looking for a flatmate, someone to share the rent, not a family. It was just luck that I’m a doctor and have a bit of a danger kink and could assist you in cases. I know you’re married to the Work and aren’t interested in relationships, and that’s fine because you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I don’t make friends easily, but you let me in. Even more than that I let you in, and you burrowed your way into my heart and I can’t imagine a life without you in it. You look at Rosie like she’s your own, and I know you love her. I know and she knows, and it’s absolutely beautiful to me that I get to see that and get to be a part of that. So yes, when someone compliments me on having a beautiful family, I’m going to smile and say ‘thank you’ because it’s true.”

John was breathing heavily by the end of his speech. He hadn’t meant to say all of that, not really, but once he had started the floodgates opened and there was nothing to hold it back. Sherlock was still staring wide-eyed at him, blinking occasionally, and John was terrified he had gone too far. Said too much.

“You…,” Sherlock stopped. Blinked, then started again. “We’re your family.”

“Yes.”

“You said you loved me. Me and Rosie.”

“Yes. Of course, I do.”

“Of course. When you said you loved me, did you mean…?”

“Sherlock...I’m not asking anything of you. It’s important that you know that. You love Rosie, and that’s what’s important to me. That you’re in her life. In my life.”

“Yes, but what did you mean?”

John sighed. Well, he was already standing in the water up to his neck. Sherlock had wanted to tell him something...he held onto the hope that what he wanted to say was in line with what John hoped to hear. That what he was about to say would let him swim instead of drown. A hand reached out and he let his fingers gently twist around a single curl near Sherlock’s ear. If that was to be the only chance he ever had to do so, then he wanted to at least know what those curls felt like. They were soft.

“I mean that I love you, Sherlock. I love you, and I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear. I know that,” but what he knew was cut off as Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and pressed his lips to his in a warm kiss.

It was gentle and chaste and over far too quickly. Sherlock pulled back and looked into John’s eyes. 

“I love you,” Sherlock’s voice was soft, low. Large hands came up to cradle John’s face, thumbs brushing under his jaw as his long fingers slid into the hair at his nape. “I have loved you for years,” he said before closing the distance between them again.

John leaned into the kiss, parting his lips and carefully pulling Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own as he sunk his fingers into his dark curls. Sherlock made a soft noise of approval and when John felt the gentle pressure of Sherlock’s tongue against his lip he gladly opened his mouth to let him in. Tongues met and slid hotly against each other and they both groaned. Sherlock tasted of the merlot and chocolate mousse from their pudding that evening. His hands moved from John’s face to his shoulders, then down his arms and around his back, pulling him closer on the bench. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but John didn’t care. He lost himself in the kiss, the press of tongues and lips, and the nip of teeth. They stayed like that for minutes or hours. John didn’t know or care and would have continued that way, happily snogging like teenagers, except that the clouds that had left seemed to have made their reappearance. The sky opened up and heavy drops of rain fell without regard for their incredibly intimate and life-changing moment. 

They pulled away from each other, panting, hearts racing. John stood up, grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him to his feet, and they made their way through the garden as quickly as they could through the rain with only the light from the kitchen door to guide their way. By the time they stood inside the kitchen, they were both soaked to the skin with mud splattered over their feet and the hem of their pajama bottoms. 

John took one look at Sherlock’s wet hair, the curls nearly straight and a lot longer than John would have suspected, and couldn’t help the bubble of laughter that escaped. He felt giddy, lighter than air. Sherlock’s eyes immediately crinkled in response, his low chuckle joining in a moment later. John took a step closer to him, one hand lifting to brush the wet hair from Sherlock’s aqua green eyes, and pushed up on his toes to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock smiled, a small and shy thing that John adored. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” John breathed, and he hadn’t meant to say it, but he meant it all the same.

He watched as a blush rushed up into Sherlock’s cheeks, pinkening the pale skin, which only added to the beauty of the man. In lieu of a reply, though, he turned and rummaged in the beach bag for another towel. He found one and stepped up to John, brought the towel up, and dried his hair with a tiny smile. 

“It’s late. Go get changed into something dry before you freeze,” Sherlock said.

John watched him, unsure what to say to what he felt was a dismissal. He had thought Sherlock was as happy as he had been at their declarations, but perhaps he had misunderstood something somewhere. His stomach twisted on itself, but he forced himself to nod.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll just head up, then,” he turned and started walking, then stopped and quickly kicked his shoes off to not track mud throughout the house. He made his way up the stairs and to his room quickly, peeling off his wet clothes and tossing them over the back of the wooden desk chair in the room. He didn’t have any extra bottoms, so he just pulled on a pair of clean pants and a shirt. 

Once in dry clothes, he wasn’t sure what to do. Should he go and try to talk to Sherlock? Did he need to apologize? Sherlock had said he loved him, but that didn’t mean he wanted a physical relationship. If he didn’t, then...that would be okay. John would accept it, of course. He’d find a way to make it work. Actually, it wouldn’t be any different than the way he’d been living since Mary left. He had his life with Sherlock and cared for Rosie, and didn’t want anything else. He hadn’t dated or gotten a leg over in the three years since, which probably said more about how far gone he was on Sherlock than anything else would have. 

Of course, this was all assuming Sherlock was interested in engaging in any kind of relationship with John beyond what they already had anyway. A romantic one. With or without sex. Solitary shower wanks had served him well and he saw no reason why they wouldn’t continue to do so. 

He was getting ahead of himself. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking anymore. 

John dragged himself to the bathroom to finish his nighttime routine, then went back to his room and climbed on to the bed. He stretched out on top of the duvet with his arms behind his head and listened to the sound of the rain lashing against the window as he stared unseeing up at the ceiling. His thoughts kept circling back to the kiss in the garden. Sherlock’s lips soft and pliant under his, the taste of him on his tongue, the feel of his body under his hands, the silkiness of curls between his fingers. 

Sherlock had kissed him. Wanted to kiss him. Initiated the kissing. So why had he suddenly seemed to pull back and away from him? 

John was so lost in thought that he missed the sound of Sherlock coming up the stairs and nearly jumped in surprise when the man pushed his bedroom door open and closed it carefully behind him. Sherlock’s hair was still a bit wet, curls heavy and glossy on his head, but he had changed into dry clothes. 

The sight of him standing there made John very aware that he was only in pants and a shirt, but he tried to remind himself that Sherlock had walked in on him completely nude more than once over the years, so this wasn’t any worse than that. Granted, he’d never walked in on him nude after snogging him and declaring he loved him.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you scared me,” he forced out. When Sherlock continued to simply stand there silently, John pushed himself up on the bed. “Everything okay?” 

Sherlock blinked and opened his mouth, then shut it again. John patted the empty spot of mattress beside him. 

“Come on, have a seat.”

The taller man stared at him again and John was caught between wanting to sigh, scream, or laugh. He didn’t know what was the right thing to do in their situation. 

“Or continue to stand there until you reboot and are ready to talk,” John tried, opting for their usual teasing banter and hoping that would be enough to get Sherlock to engage in some kind of communication. 

Luckily, it seemed to work. Sherlock scoffed, rolled his eyes, then promptly sat at the foot of the bed. 

“John, I’m not sure how to do this.”

“Do what, exactly?”

“This.” One large hand gesticulated wildly between them. “You and me. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to mess this up and I think I already have.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “You haven’t messed anything up.”

“I saw the way you looked at me downstairs. I’ve hurt you and I don’t even know what I did wrong,” Sherlock spoke quietly, hands clasped together in his lap. He refused to look up.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. That was me. I was just...in my own head, or something. It wasn’t anything you did.” 

When Sherlock didn’t respond, John took a deep breath and centered himself for the conversation they were about to delve into.

“Did you mean what you said? That you love me?”

Sherlock looked up sharply at that, silver eyes flashing. “Of course I meant it. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. You have to know that I wouldn’t say something like that if I didn’t mean it.”

John put up a placating hand. “No, of course I know that. I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to feel like I thought you would do that.”

Sherlock stood up from the bed and started to pace across the floor in front of John. 

“Good. That’s...good. I’m not very good at discussing feelings, John. I know that I love you and so I said the words because they are true and the most efficient way of expressing the sentiment. But it’s so much more than that. I love cases and my experiments and my microscope and tea. I love Mrs. Hudson, and my parents, and even Mycroft. I love Rosie. I love Rosie like she was my own flesh and blood and bone. I would die for any of them,” Sherlock stated, his hands digging into his curls and fluffing them agitatedly as he paced. “But you, John.” He stopped and turned to look at John, eyes bright and intense and John couldn’t look away if he wanted to. “You’re the sun and the moon and all the stars I cannot name. You’re the sea and the wind and the sand. You’re the blood in my veins and the oxygen in my lungs. When I say ‘I love you’ it is because those are the only words I have at my disposal. I would die for you. I would kill for you. But more than all of that, I would live for you, John Watson.”

John’s jaw fell open as Sherlock spoke, his mind spinning under the flood of Sherlock’s affection. Sherlock walked up to the side of the bed and sat down beside John, one long leg pulled up in front of him, his knee pressing into John’s thigh. Heat bloomed from that simple point of contact and spread through John’s body like wildfire. 

Warm palms came up to cradle his face and John’s breath caught in his chest as Sherlock’s sea glass gaze held his. “Do you understand, John?”

John did. He completely understood. Sherlock had just put into impossible words the emotions he never knew how to describe. He felt like Sherlock had pried open his chest, sliced open his heart, and examined it under his microscope. Found all the hidden recesses that were filled with affection and love and loyalty and devotion to the man before him. But these were Sherlock’s words. Sherlock, who felt more deeply than he ever let the world know, but who never could truly hide behind the facade he built around himself. How could John even respond to that? 

His hand shook as he reached out and placed it tentatively on Sherlock’s chest. His friend’s heart was beating wildly beneath his palm, his thumb tracing over the raised edges of the bullet hole there beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. 

They had been used against each other so many times. Dark hearted people who would use the affection they held for one another as a weapon to drag them down. They had even stood in their own way for years in an effort to protect each other. Sherlock had fallen off a roof for him, John had returned to his murderous wife for him. Over and over they went. Both grand and tiny sacrifices made constantly for the other. 

“I do,” he said simply. Sherlock had held up a mirror to John’s heart and revealed what was reflected there. What more could he add?

Sherlock’s thumbs swept over John’s cheekbones as they continued to gaze at each other.

“I’m going to kiss you, John. Then I’m going to lay you out and show you what you mean to me. I’m going to watch you fall apart under my hands and then put you back together. I want to taste and touch and know you in every way one person can know another.”

John felt his eyes widen, lips parted, under the onslaught of Sherlock’s words. _Dear God, I’m being seduced by Sherlock Holmes_ , he thought. His cock stirred under the mental images that his mind provided at Sherlock’s words. 

“If you keep talking like that I’ll come before you get that far.”

Sherlock smirked, a nearly feral gleam in his eyes, and pulled John’s mouth to his own. They immediately opened to the other, tongues meeting and tasting, exploring, both men trying to take control of the kiss. Sherlock’s hand shifted from his face to his shoulders, pressing him down onto the bed, and John shifted himself away from the headboard so he could lay flat. Sherlock settled over him and John revelled in the feeling of that long body pressing down against his skin. Sherlock pulled away from the kiss, panting for breath, before he started to kiss down John’s jaw to his ear. John groaned in approval as his hands traced up and down Sherlock’s back before he let his hands slip under the thin material of his shirt to caress the skin there. His skin was burning under his fingertips and John gripped Sherlock’s hips, pulling him down against him and both men gasped at the sudden friction as their cocks brushed against each other through their clothes. 

“Oh God,” John breathed out, pressing a fevered kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Not quite,” Sherlock snarked in his ear and John let out a breathless giggle.

“I want to taste every inch of you,” John panted.

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Sherlock challenged and John grinned, twisting his head so that he could take Sherlock’s mouth in another kiss. 

As soon as Sherlock was pliant beneath his lips, John took the advantage and flipped them. Sherlock gasped in surprise, but as John straddled his hips, his weight pressing him down and their cocks sliding together once again, the gasp turned into a groan. 

John started kissing down Sherlock’s pale neck, his whimpers and sighs in his ear, and gave his hips an experimental roll. Sherlock cried out, but the sound was lost in a sudden crash and roll of thunder outside the window. Sherlock’s hands went flying to John’s hips, long fingers digging into the soft flesh there and John bit back a moan. 

Just as he bit down gently on Sherlock’s neck, his door went flying open. 

“Daddy, thunder,” Rosie called out, tears thick in her voice, from the doorway and John groaned into Sherlock’s neck for a very different reason than he had a moment ago. 

He sat up, rolling carefully off Sherlock, as Rosie approached the bed with her new stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. 

“I know, darling, I heard the thunder,” he soothed. 

She climbed onto the bed, crawled past him, and settled right beside Sherlock, pulling the duvet out and tucking herself in against his body. Sherlock’s eyes drifted from her to John and John shrugged with an apologetic smile. Rosie always crawled into bed with John during thunderstorms, and it appeared that night would be just like any other. It didn’t phase her for a moment that Sherlock was there. She was already most of the way back to sleep when John sighed, pulled the duvet up, and settled beneath it himself. He lay down facing Sherlock, who watched the entire scene silently. John raised his brows and wiggled a bit of the duvet at him. 

“Looks like she chose you to be her knight in shining armour tonight,” he said with a hesitant smile. 

Sherlock returned the smile and John’s chest clenched at the sight of it. He watched as the taller man settled himself under the duvet and carefully wrapped around Rosie so that he could face John. They watched each other silently for several minutes while Rosie’s breathing evened out between them as she settled to sleep and the thunder rolled in the distance over the water. 

“Not exactly how I saw this evening going,” John said softly after he was sure Rosie was asleep again. 

“Nor I,” Sherlock agreed in a low voice.

“How did you see it ending?”

“Originally, I had thought we’d have some wine while we talked in the garden, then come in, go to bed, and keep ignoring what has been growing between us for years.”

John couldn’t help the small smile at that. “That sounds like most evenings we’ve shared.”

“I know. I wasn’t expecting a deviation from that. Especially not tonight. Not really ever, if I’m going to be honest.”

“Why is that?”

“I couldn’t take a chance that I was wrong, John. I didn’t want to lose you and Rosie. I didn’t know if our friendship could survive if I took the chance and you did not feel the same way. I never expected you to be the one to make a declaration.”

“Sherlock...you must have known.”

“Must I? I’ve always seen the way you look at me, but it appears I didn’t observe.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“I misspoke. I saw, and I observed, but I couldn't trust what I observed.”

“How come?”

“I wasn’t an unbiased party. I didn’t know if I was seeing what I wanted to see or what was really there.” 

Rosie shifted between them, and John lifted his hand to brush back the curls from her eyes as she settled into a new position. His hand then reached out tentatively to brush the curls from Sherlock’s eyes, as well. Sherlock leaned into the touch.

“Facts, John. Data. It’s constantly skewed when it regards you. When I think you will react one way, you do something else. It’s always been like that. It’s one of the things about you that fascinates me. You never do what I expect. You never have.”

“I guess I really did the unexpected tonight then,” John smiled and Sherlock’s return smile was dazzling.

“Indeed. I’m glad you did.”

“Me too,” John agreed. He leaned over, careful to not jostle Rosie in her sleep, and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock returned it with equal gentleness. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he spoke against his lips before he leaned back and lay down again.

“Goodnight, John.”

Both men curled around Rosie, their eyes locked on each other until John could no longer resist the pull of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading along so far. One chapter to go! 💜
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are treasured and adored.


	5. Epilogue

Their return home was filled with some interesting adjustments to life in London and the flat in 221B Baker Street. They still needed two bedrooms, but there had been an internal shuffling around as John eventually moved into the downstairs bedroom and Rosie took up sole residence of the upper. All in all, it was a rather easy transition moving from friends to lovers. Sherlock still sulked and John took walks with Rosie when he needed air, and they both drank ridiculous amounts of tea. There were cases and clinic hours and Rosie’s wants and needs to be attended to. The day-to-day remained very similar to before. Except for the brush of lips when tea was passed, or a curly head laying in a lap when watching a film on the sofa, or no one claiming that a candle wouldn’t be necessary when they went out for dinner. On actual date nights. 

A year ago, if someone had told him that Sherlock Holmes would one day lay beside him in bed, curls wild and eyes bright, and whisper the words “Marry me” to him, he would have laughed. Or cried. He definitely wouldn’t have believed them. It had actually happened, though. John had been there, and he could hardly believe it. 

Now they were back at the beach, and they were promising to love each other through better or worse. God knows they had been through all kinds of worse, and John had all the hope in the world that the future would only hold the better for them. 

When they first arrived, Sherlock had shown him the boutonnière he had had made for John. Instead of flowers, it was an intricate piece of jewelry crafted from sea glass and silver wire. John rubbed his finger over the glass and wire that were turned into wearable art.

“Sherlock, this is beautiful.”

“I thought you would appreciate it. It seemed appropriate.”

“I love it. Do you have one, as well?”

“I do.”

John smiled at the words and appreciated the blush that crept up Sherlock’s cheeks when he realized what he said.

“Why sea glass?”

“It was my treasure as a boy. You’re my treasure, now.”

John grinned up at him. “That sounds very much like,” he started.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock finished for him. “Yes, I know.” 

John kissed him, pouring every ounce of the love he held for him into it, and Sherlock smiled against his lips before he returned the kiss with equal devotion. 

The ceremony took place the next day. Just a few friends and family were invited. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Mike, Harry, Mycroft, Sherlock’s parents. And Rosie, of course. She was dressed in light blue and threw flower petals along the sand. They didn’t walk down an aisle, but Rosie had to throw petals, or she wasn’t a ‘real flowergirl for Daddy and Papa’s wedding’. When they made their vows she stood beside them because neither had the heart to ask her to sit down. After a small reception with drinks and a meal, everyone parted. Rosie went with Mrs. Hudson after a tearful goodbye, but when ice cream was promised, her tears quickly went away. 

Sherlock and John went back to the little cottage that they stayed in the first time. They shared a bottle of wine and kissed and teased each other until Sherlock decided they needed to shower and head to bed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” John asked when he found Sherlock in the large bed after his shower. He hadn’t bothered to put on pants and stood naked beside the bed already half-hard.

“Going to sleep, John. It’s been a long day,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly, but his eyes took in the sight of John as he stood there and he felt himself grow harder under that look alone.

“No, no. We have to have sex. It’s tradition,” John argued as he pulled the duvet back and completely off the bed. 

“John, we’ve had sex hundreds of times,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“True, but I’ve never had sex with my husband,” John replied as he started to pull the sheet off of Sherlock’s body, revealing miles of lovely bare skin and tight black silk pants. He crawled onto the bed and over Sherlock’s body. He nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in the clean skin and the unique smell that was Sherlock. He pressed a kiss into his neck as he let his weight settle over Sherlock. 

“That’s incredibly sentimental. I’m embarrassed for you,” Sherlock drawled as John kissed his way down Sherlock’s neck to his chest, long fingers of one hand carding through John’s short hair.

“Yes, I can see the secondhand embarrassment blush on your cheeks,” John teased before he flicked his tongue over one of Sherlock’s nipples, then bit gently on the rounded nub. 

Sherlock moaned beneath him, pushing up into his mouth, and John pulled away to blow across the sensitive flesh. 

“Of course, if you want me to stop, I will,” John said before he moved to take Sherlock’s other nipple in his mouth.

“Well, who am I to stand in the way of tradition?” Sherlock groaned and John smiled as he felt Sherlock harden against his stomach. He pressed more kisses down his body as he shifted further down.

“That’s the spirit,” John laughed before swiftly hooking his thumbs into Sherlock’s pants and pulling them down and off Sherlock’s legs. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Whatever response Sherlock was about to make to that was lost as John bent down and took Sherlock in his mouth without ceremony. The taller man’s hips jerked up automatically as he bit back a groan and John grinned around him. He hollowed his cheeks as he pulled up and circled the head of his cock with his tongue. Sherlock’s hand tightened in his hair as much as he could and John flicked his tongue along the slit, the salty taste of Sherlock’s arousal heavy on his tongue. He moaned in pleasure before swallowing Sherlock down again. 

“John,” Sherlock breathed out and John looked up at him through his lashes. Sherlock’s eyes were locked on him, pupils blown wide as he watched John take him further into his mouth before pulling up and working his tongue around him again. “Come up here.”

He popped off, pressed a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s cock, then climbed back up and took Sherlock’s mouth in a heated kiss. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his body, and John let his hands trace up and down Sherlock’s sides. He shifted his legs as he straddled Sherlock’s hips and the moment their cocks aligned both men moaned at the friction. 

“I want you,” Sherlock pleaded.

“How do you want me?” John kissed along Sherlock’s jaw towards his ear.

“I don’t care, I just want you. I need you. Now.”

“I want to ride you,” John breathed out into his ear and he felt Sherlock’s cock jump against his own. He pulled back to look down at his husband.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock questioned, surprise clear in his voice. 

“Yes,” John replied. While it wasn’t exactly unusual for them to switch, it clearly was not what Sherlock had been expecting that night. “Unless you’d prefer…,” he started.

“No! No, that’s fine.” Sherlock pushed up on his arms to kiss him again, pushing his tongue into his mouth and John met him quickly. 

Sherlock pulled away after a minute and John leaned over to open the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out the lube. He quickly opened it, poured some into his palm, and slicked up Sherlock’s cock. 

“I may have prepared myself in the loo,” John grinned and watched as Sherlock let his head flop down on the pillow. He aligned himself and sank carefully down. He bit down on his lip as his body opened for Sherlock and he felt himself being filled. Sherlock’s eyes were locked on his, his hands running up and down John’s thighs as he lowered onto him, and he kept himself perfectly still. When he was fully seated, John let out a sigh, delighting in the feeling of fullness. 

That feeling was what he needed. That feeling of being full and possessed and wanted by another. He needed Sherlock in him the way he needed oxygen. Sherlock waited as patiently as he could for John to take the lead. His large hands had shifted from his thighs to his hips, fingers splayed wide and digging gently into the flesh there. John stared down at him and carefully pulled himself up before pushing back down and both men gasped at the sensation. Sherlock’s fingers tightened and John rolled his hips again before he gradually built up a rhythm. 

They lost themselves in the steady sway of their bodies seeking and giving pleasure. Sighs and moans and breathy exclamations and names of lovers on lips filled the room as they focused on nothing except each other. When one of Sherlock’s hands went from John’s waist to his cock, he cried out, and came. White bursts of light brightened behind closed eyes and Sherlock cried out his name as he thrust hard into John before stilling as he came as well, pulsing into John repeatedly. John’s heart thudded hard in his chest as he leaned over to press a messy kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, uncaring of the stickiness between their bodies. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his back and held him close. John felt the pounding of his heart against his chest, and may have squeezed Sherlock that much tighter to hold on to the feeling before carefully pulling away. He placed a kiss against Sherlock’s sweaty temple before he rolled off the bed and made his way into the ensuite bathroom where he quickly cleaned himself up with a wetted flannel. He grabbed another clean one and carried it back into the bedroom to clean Sherlock. He was awarded for his efforts by a lazy, contented smile from his husband. 

John tossed the flannel back towards the bathroom, missing by several feet, but he didn’t care. He turned his eyes back to Sherlock and simply looked at the man spread out before him. There was still a soft flush to his chest and neck, his cock was soft and spent where it lay against pale skin and dark curls, one hand splayed wide against the stomach that could benefit from a few more pounds, the other arm propped under his head, causing his curls to fluff out around the pillow in a halo of utter chaos. He was breathtaking. John’s heart nearly hurt in his chest as he felt the true enormity of what they had done that day. Sherlock was his now, forever, and he could cry for joy and triumph in that claim. 

“You love me,” Sherlock said, a small smile pulling at his lips, as he let John look at him.

“God help me, I do,” John agreed. 

He grabbed the duvet from the floor before he climbed into the bed and pulled it over them. Sherlock turned to face him with an impish grin.

“Too late for help. You signed your life away in front of an official and a handful of select witnesses. You belong to me now.”

“And you belong to me.”

“I’ve always belonged to you,” Sherlock confessed quietly. 

John’s smile was almost sad in response. He lifted his hand to brush a curl from Sherlock’s eye. They had lost so much time being together like this. Perhaps, though, there was something to have been gained by their time apart. Rosie, of course, but perhaps other things as well. Sherlock had learned to be more open with his emotions after his return from the dead and John had learned that a life without Sherlock was one that left him barely living. They had both hurt each other in such awful, painful ways. 

Their vows to each other promised new beginnings. To cherish from this day forward. Their pasts could not be forgotten, but they could be forgiven and those lessons learned carried with them into their future. 

John was nearly incandescent with happiness at that prospect.

He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips in an attempt to convey every joyful and blissful thought in his head and heart. Sherlock sighed into the kiss before pulling away and turning so his back pressed into John’s chest. 

Before John closed his eyes to sleep, his gaze fell on the boutonnière on the bedside table. 

Sea glass. Just a piece of glass from a broken bottle or jar that somehow made its way into the ocean. A piece of rubbish that no one wanted anymore, all jagged edges and damaged beyond repair and use. Then the ocean and the sand joined together and abused that mutilated shard, beating it in the currents and scratching its surface relentlessly.

But that wasn’t the end of the story; that the shard was beaten down until it no longer even resembled itself. Instead, something somewhat amazing happened. The rough edges were smoothed, its appearance changed from clear to cloudy. It changed and though it did not look like it did before, it is far more beautiful and precious after the tumult of being broken, discarded, and abused by the sea. From rubbish to treasure in a matter of years. 

As John held Sherlock in his arms, he couldn’t help but think that they were both rather like sea glass themselves. They had both been broken and beaten down by the world around them, discarded by others, ignored or pitied, and their jagged edges lashed out in an attempt to keep others away, to protect themselves from those around them. They found each other through happenstance and their edges began to smooth out as they worked their lives around each other, and then they were thrown further into the waves as Moriarty, Sherlock’s fall, John’s own anger, and Mary’s bullet raged against them. They went through hell and came back out again. They looked different, now. Smoother edges. Easier smiles. Open expressions of love and admiration in their eyes. 

Transfigured through a process that was painful in many ways, but had led to the moment they now found themselves. 

John breathed out slowly, his arm wrapping tightly around Sherlock, and his hand rested over his heart. Beneath his palm he felt the raised edge of a bullet hole. He closed his eyes and focused on the steady beat of the strong heart instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and following along! Your comments and kudos mean the world to me. 💜

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for coming and giving this fic a try! Updates will be every Wednesday. 
> 
> Fun fact: Rosie is based very heavily on my youngest daughter. So much so that I had to do a double-check that I didn't write her name instead of Rosie's while writing her parts. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated and treasured!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for reveling_in_mayhem's 'The Alchemy of Sea Glass'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586612) by [cupidford](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidford/pseuds/cupidford)




End file.
